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"I guess you like being burned."

"No. Don’t. Just listen. If I told you, Andy, even after you’d tortured me, you’d have no way of knowing if it was the truth till you got out there. And trust me, it wouldn’t be. Now think about that."

"You think I’m gonna haul you to Wyoming?"

"How are you gonna find the cabin? My dirt road’s in the middle of nowhere. You have to watch the mileage from a certain point even to have a chance at finding it, and I’m not telling you where that is. Not here. No fucking way. You need me; I need you. Let’s take a trip."

"I can find it on my own."

"How?"

"I found you."

He snorted. "That fucking cowboy."

I considered holding the flame to Orson’s eye until he screamed exactly where in the cabin or shed I could find the paraphernalia of his obsession. But he was right: I wouldn’t know if he’d told the truth until I got out there.

I wanted to ask him about my mother and how he’d framed me, but I was afraid the rage would undermine me like it had Walter, and there were things I still had to know.

"Where’s Luther?" I asked.

"I don’t know. Luther drifts." Discomfort strained his voice.

"How do you communicate?"

"E-mail."

"What’s your password?" Part of me wanted him to resist. I flipped open the Zippo.

"W-B-A-S-S."

"Pray he hasn’t touched them." I got up and opened the door.

"Andy," he said. "Can I please have whatever you’ve been giving me? This hurts like hell."

"It’s supposed to hurt."

I walked through the living room into Orson’s study and booted up the computer. His password gave me access to his E-mail account. Six new messages: five spam, one from LK72:

>From:

>Date: Fr, 8 Nov 1996 20:54:33 -0500 (EST)

>To: David Parker

>Subject:

>

>O —

>

>Getting antsy. Need to head north soon. Ask me about that strpt at stlns. Funny stuff! AT is still gone. As is WL. Still? as to the L. whereabouts. I’ll wait if you want. Otherwise, there’s someone I need to go visit asap up in Sas. Still all over the tube. Wow! Looking forward to OB.

>

>L

I searched Orson’s deleted, sent, and received message folders, but he kept nothing saved or archived. When I’d printed out the E-mail, I took it with me into the den.

"Decipher this," I said, setting the cryptic E-mail in Orson’s lap. "It is from Luther, right?"

"Yeah, that’s from him."

"So read it back to me like it makes some fucking sense."

He looked down at the page and read aloud in a weary, crestfallen voice: "Orson, getting antsy. Need to head north soon. Ask me about that stripper at Stallion’s. Funny stuff. Andrew Thomas is still gone. As is Walter Lancing. Still no idea as to the Lancing whereabouts. I’ll wait if you want. Otherwise, there’s someone I need to go visit asap up in Saskatchewan. Still all over the tube. Wow. Looking forward to the Outer Banks. Luther." He looked up at me. "That’s it."

"So he’s still in North Carolina, waiting for you to tell him what to do about the Lancings?"

"Yes."

Returning to the desk in his study, I sat for a moment, staring out the window at a woman raking her lawn across the street. As I drafted the message in my head, it occurred to me all at once what I would do — about Luther, the photographs, even Orson. It was a revelation not unlike the epiphanies I’d experienced upon finding my way out of the woods in the plotting of a novel.

As I typed, I worried that my E-mail response to Luther would deviate too conspicuously from Orson’s format and style, but I risked it:

>From:

>Date: Sat, 9 Nov 1996 13:56:26 -0500 (EST)

>To:

>Subject:

>

>L,

>

>Head on to Sas. I may take care of the L’s later if need be. I’m heading cross-country, too, to you know where. Want to meet somewhere en route late tomorrow or Monday, and tell me about that strpr in person?

>

>O

I walked back into the den and filled a syringe with two vials of Ativan. Then I jabbed the needle deep into the muscle of Orson’s bare ass. On my way out the door, he called my name, but I didn’t stop. I ascended the staircase